


Miscellaneous Fragments

by conej0s



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fifties, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Preschool, Multi, Old work, Unfinished, discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conej0s/pseuds/conej0s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a different, unfinished Homestuck fic: Chapter one is Highschool!JohnKat, chapter two is 50s!Cronkri and chapter three is preschool!Johndave. These were all written about three years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not really into homestuck anymore but i reread some of my old fic and thought it was decently written, so here's some of that. this first one is a highschool AU that was supposed to eventually be johnkat. calliope is named "callie o'phee" in this universe, and most of the alphas/dancestors are teachers while the betas are students.

The day is Tuesday, November 6th; a date of no particular importance. It is 2:12 in the afternoon, and normally, you would be in your 9th grade English classroom right now, listening to Mrs. Serket as she discusses the Bard and his impact on literature... or some nonsense like that. Strangely enough, though, you aren’t in your 9th grade English classroom. You are in the office of Mr. Strider, the school counselor. You are seated in what is often referred to as The Hot Seat; a chair that faces directly whomever is sitting at the desk, named so because sitting in said chair often causes the person in it to sweat profusely and fidget. You, however, are not unfamiliar with The Hot Seat. Sure, the office in which the seat is has changed. and as does whoever you are confronted with, but the circumstances remain constant.

“So, what brings us to my office today,” He takes a moment to look at a piece of paper. Did this idiot even know he had called you down here? “Karkat?”

“I don’t know. You were the one who sent for me, smartass.”

Instead of reprimanding you for such brazen use of profanity, he gives you a wry look before returning his gaze to the folder in his hand. “It was a rhetorical question. I am asking this so that you will evaluate your own behavior and reflect upon it, not because I don’t know.”

You open your mouth to speak, but you are cut short, “Also, I pretended not to know your name for the sake of irony, if you’re about to ask. I think, at this point, that it’s best to assume that every counselor in this school district knows your name.”

You furrow your brow. “Fine. I’ll play along. I have evaluated my behavior and I do not know why I am here. Enlighten me, Mr. Strider.” Your words are curt and indignant against those of Strider’s, which are nonchalant, unfeeling, and  concise , like that of a surgical knife. You wonder how the hell this man landed a job as a school counselor.

“Well,” He pauses, opening the folder and carding through it and selecting one of your more recent rap sheets, “You don’t have the best rep, Vantas. The kinder teachers who have had you in their classes describe you as ‘Having a colorful vocabulary,’ and ‘Seemingly angry at the world and everyone who inhabits it,’. The more blunt of the bunch say things such as, “He is a burden just to be in the presence of,’ and ‘Horrendously obstinate and uncouth. His perfect transcript does not excuse his more than deplorable attitude’. What’s going on here, man?”

“I don’t know, ‘man’. You hire teachers who lack the balls required to put up with it?” You slump into the well-worn chair, eyeing the blonde man with disdain.

“How much do you want to bet that if I asked anybody else associated with you, they would say otherwise? I doubt our teachers are the problem.” He folds his arms, raising an eyebrow at you in a quizzical manner.

You put on your best southern drawl in imitation to him, “‘Yes, none of them teachers are a problem, ‘specially that Mr. English. Boy, would I love to corral his cattle or whatever.’”

After a moment of mulling over your quip, he gives a sigh. “Was that necessary? Also, how do you know whose ‘cattle’ I want to ‘corral’?” He adds a liberal amount of emphasis to your metaphor.

“The science teacher has a pretty slack jaw.” You answer drily. 

“Contrary to my comment about teachers not being the problem, I’m actually astounded by the fact that Ms. Lalonde hasn’t been fired yet.” His expression deepens, “Listen, I didn’t call you here to have a gossip session with you. You’re here because you’ve been swearing like a sailor and treating teachers with disrespect.”

“Why isn’t the principal dealing with me, then?” You question, sitting back up in the chair.

“Normally,” He shuffles the folder full of papers about on his desk before returning your stare, “You would have been reprimanded for your behavior. But Ms. O’phee believes you to have  _ serious psychological problems _ ,” His claim is punctuated by an eye roll.

You begin to protest, but he holds his hand up to silence you, “ _ Personally _ , though, I don’t believe that this is the case. I have gone through your file and looked at your behavioral patterns long enough to be able to guess, with due accuracy, what the color of your underwear is, and I, as somebody who majored in psychology, do not believe you to be mentally ill in any way, shape or form. You’re just...”

You hate that he pauses in search of a polite way to express his point. You just want him to spit it out and stop sugarcoating things. “Whiny? Ungrateful? Rebellious?”

“Emotionally unstable.” He corrects.

Caught off guard by his answer, you search his expression, but find nothing. The man’s face is shrouded in perpetual near-stoicism and snarkiness. You again find yourself questioning his career choice. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He brow knits. “Though I’m more than sure you know what I mean, I’m going to humor you and clarify: You are prone to bouts of erratic changes in your demeanor and mood, likely caused by a poor home life or troubling event that occurred in your past.”

He glances at you, expecting a response, but you offer him nothing, so he continues.

“Your mood change has lead you to become of introverted nature. That is shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise, as people are often alienated by unexplained contempt. Unwilling to change your own behavior in favor of making friends, you have decided to hole up within a psychological cave, far from the reach of others. Now, when people go out of their way to interact with you, all they get is a negative response. This results in you becoming angrier, and the cycle continues.” He takes a sip of his coffee. You note that his mug is shaped like a kitten, the handle resembling a tail.

His orange eyes flit over your small, hoodie-clad form. “This is why I do not believe there to be any mental issues with you. I’ve gathered that you are a victim of circumstance that needs a way to break a well-worn cycle brought on by familial issues.” He leans over his desk, kitten mug in hand. You watch as his poker face is broken, if only for one, subtle moment. “The world is not as hostile as you’re making it out to be, little man.”

You fiddle with the drawstrings on your hood. “Maybe I don’t want to ‘break the cycle’.” You mutter into the collar of the turtleneck you wear below your hoodie. You are caught off guard by the brief change in Strider’s demeanor. For some inexplicable reason, you no longer feel inclined to insult or verbally attack this man. You blame this on the fact that you have more closure than you know what to do with, which, in actuality, is little.

“Have you ever considered that maybe that’s because you don’t know what to look forward to? That you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a pleasant and positive relationship with somebody?” He cooly takes a swig from his mug, watching your expression over the rim of the cup.

You ponder this for a moment, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

He takes this as an opportunity to continue. “Perhaps you should try to reach out to people instead of holing up like you do. I know that you are a very emotional kid, but you should use that to your advantage.”

“Holy sh- er, stuff, you make it sound like I’m some sort of pansy.”  _ Emotional. _ Christ, if that doesn’t sound like something straight out of a romantic comedy. This man is going to be the death of you.

“Okay, I don’t usually say things like this, Vantas, but if wearing purple sweaters and turtlenecks doesn’t  _ already _ make you a pansy, I don’t know what does.” He gives you a wry look before taking a moment to gingerly place his kitten mug on a coaster.

“It’s a hoodie, jackass, and it was a gift.” You snap, looking at your shirt. It is dark purple with a red crab on it. Written above the crab are the words,  _ Pier 39, San Francisco.  _ You are particularly fond of it because it had been a gift from one of your internet friends, Terezi, who lives on the west coast. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable for Mr. Kitten Mug to make accusations like that.”

He runs his fingers through his product-heavy hair, placing the offending mug on a coaster. “We’re getting off topic. Point is, you need to learn to open up to people and make some friends. I’m not asking much of you.”

The two of you spend the next moment immersed in what the counselor would call thoughtful silence, but what you would label as sitting nervously for several minutes under the careful study of the blonde. You feel like one of those amoebic cells under a microscope; disgusting, largely unremarkable, and under heavy surveillance. If there’s anything that inebriated science teacher has taught you, it’s that there is nothing more boring than watching a tiny, wriggling blob for 45 minutes. This metaphor is becoming increasingly accurate, as you are, in short, nothing more than a tiny, indifferent blob of ever-changing emotions under the intense glare of every adult you come into contact with. How fitting.

After what feels like an unending expanse of time, Mr. Strider finally rises from his seat. From his desk drawer, he unearths a small piece of paper. A hall pass, you’re sure. He reaches over his desk to tousle your mop of curly, red hair before handing you the pass. You flinch under his touch, but refrain from reprimanding him for it.

He glances at his watch, pursing his lips. “The school day ends in a few moments. I suggest that you stop in your final period teacher’s room to get whatever homework you have before leaving.” He hastily walks to the door, holding it open for you as you take your leave.

 

♥

 

You regard Karkat with empathy as you watch him leave. You would be lying if you you said that you didn’t see a little bit of yourself in him.

You slowly walk back to your desk, eyeing the flurry of papers littering its wooden surface. Never before had you seen a student’s permanent record so laden with bad news, and you aren’t thrilled about the task of having to sort through those papers for what must be the third time in one day. Easing into your black swivel chair, you pick up the papers with a note of morose. You begin with the old items, going in chronological order from kindergarten to grade eight. A sigh escapes your nose.

At first you could have sworn you’d imagined it, but you hear an abrupt knock on the door to your office. You pause, setting the stack of papers in your hand back on your desk. Another knock rings though the room.

“Come in.” You say with uncertainty.

The door opens, and you are confronted with the sight of your boss, Mrs. Callie O’phee, who is glad in a green suit and stark, white gloves. She stands in the doorway, a child trailing loosely behind her. “Greetings , Dirk. We have a new student, and I would like you to help him get situated.”

Catching sight of the boy, you remark, “Well, we don’t have much time for that. Busses are arriving.”

Her green eyes flick to the young brunette beside her. “Well, John here, being the stand up gent he is, volunteered to stay after school today.” She walks over to your desk, smile falling a bit when she notices the nest of papers you are immersed in. “My, my, Mr. Strider, whatever happened here?”

“Remember that Vantas kid you asked me to speak with?” You gather the papers into a stack before haphazardly placing them back in the manilla folder from which they came.

Her pale forehead creases. “Oh, bother. He didn’t do this, did he?” She retrieves a wayward paper from the floor, looking it over.

“No, I did. This is his permanent record, and it isn’t exactly a breeze to look through. Though I suppose if you wanted to get technical, he did do this in that he filled this thing.”

“My apologies, love. Had I known his record was this... dense, I would have assigned somebody to help you with it.” She tugs at her red bowtie for a spell before gesturing for the young brunette accompanying her to come in. “Anyway, this is John Egbert.”

John meekly steps forward, holding out his right hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Strider.”

You study his hand before shaking it, and you make a mental note of the joy buzzer he’s wearing. “I’m left-handed.” You insist before offering your dominant hand.

His expression darkens, begrudgingly gave his non-booby-trapped hand to you.

You lower your voice. “Not today, kiddo.”

The principal gives a chuckle. “Mr. Strider is quite clever, John. It wouldn’t underestimate him.” She turns to address you. “He got me good with that buzzer of his. I could swear that the hair on the back of my neck is still standing up a touch.”

“I still need to speak with you about Karkat, though.” You place a hand on your hip, holding up the overstuffed folder. 

“What is there to speak about, Dirk? All I asked is that you would meet with him for a little while each day about his behavioral issues.” She says, smoothing some non-existent wrinkles on her crisp, green suit before giving you a wary look.

You give a long sigh. “Anybody could see that this kid’s issue stems from the fact that he is reluctant to make friends.” You place the folder back on your desk, making note of its bursting seams and corners torn raw.

She absently runs a hand through her short, white hair. “Well what do you think can be done about that? The most we can do is give him encouragement and support and hope he opens up to people.”

“I digress.” You say flatly, folding your arms.

Her pale eyebrows knit. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I’ve spoken with a few of his teachers. He gripes and moans and puts his peers through turmoil until he is allowed to work alone. Now, I’ll be honest, when I was his age, I wasn’t keen on group projects either, but he’d be well liked if he just allowed himself to meet new people. I know from personal experience.” You explain softly.

You and Callie’s heads turn when John clears his throat. He shifts with nervousness as he feels eyes on him. “I know that it’s rude to interrupt you guys, but I’m not sure if this is a conversation for when I’m here.” He glances at a painting of a stallion on the wall, his voice quieting. “I’m also sort of bored out of my mind.”

“Well then,” O’phee begins awkwardly, “Why don’t we pick up on Mr. Vantas later, and work on getting our new student acquainted.”

 

♥

 

“Mrs. Serket?” You inquire, opening the door to your English classroom. The classroom appears empty until you see a woman’s head surface from below a desk at a far corner in the seemingly deserted room.

Just as you enter the door, the final bell sounds. You try not to fret over it, though, as the busses rarely leave right after classes are dismissed.

Noticing you, she pushes herself up onto the desk. Her hair is in quite a bit of disarray, though her dress looks fresh out of the dry cleaner’s, and her makeup is pristine. “Ah, Karkat. You’re a little late.” She jokes.

You clear your throat, approaching her tidy, little desk and holding the note from the counselor out to her. “I was with the counselor.”

She promptly takes, it, her blue eyes flitting over the note. She looks up. “I take it you want tonight’s homework assignment?”

“That would be great.” You say flatly. Placing one of your hands into your hoodie pocket.

She places a hand on her chin in thought. After a brief pause, she answers, “Well, it would be quite difficult to do it without having been through the day’s lesson. I think the best option here would be to exempt it and go over it with you in class tomar-”

The door you entered through is flung open. In walks Mr. English.

“Hey Ara- oh, did I pick a bad time?” Her tugs at his dark green suspenders.

“Not necessarily. I was giving one of my students his homework, though. What do you need?” She asks cheerily.

“Oh, ah, nothing much. Just looking for.. erm,” He scratches his head.

“An excuse to be here?” You finish venomously. You know that Mr. English has what could be called a crush on Mrs. Serket, who, unfortunately for him, is already spoken for.

His face reddens. “No! I came in here, to... inquire about the grading system, as I am new, and I do not know if this school has incorporated a digital grading system yet..” He trails off, looking sheepishly at the two of you.

When you resume discussing your homework with Serket, you are sure to emphasize her title as a married woman. “But  _ Mrs.  _ Serket, I would loathe to get behind in class, as it would only result in me receiving more work. I don’t want extra work,  _ Mrs.  _ Serket, because then you’ll spend more time grading additional than you will with your loving  _ spouse _ and children.” You say innocently as you watch English squirm.

The man splutters, “You’re married, Aranea?”

Her face betrays confusion as her gaze pans over the two of you. “Yes?”

“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! Who’s the lucky gentleman?” He chirps, straightening his light green bowtie.

She distractedly rummages through her desk at that moment, avoiding eye contact. “As much as I would love to engage in small talk, Jake, I’m a little  tied up at the moment. One of my students was asking for tonights homework.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry if I was imposing.” He slips his thumbs under his green suspenders, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“It’s okay. Just give me a little time.” She continues to card through stacks of papers on her desk, finally happening upon the paper she was looking for. She thrusts the paper towards you. “Alright, Karkat, here are the notes we took today. This is my master copy, so do take care of it.”

You take the paper, giving it a quick read-over. “Your handwriting is difficult to read.” You deadpan.

“You’ll have to make do with what you’ve got. It’s my only copy.” She looks at you from over her computer.

You frown.

Mr. English resolves to lean on the door. “As I said before, I apologize for the less than stellar planning on my part.” He gives a nervous chuckle before looking to you. “How are things going for you, Mr. Vantas?”

“Just peachy.” You utter gruffly.

At that moment, someone opens the door, and English scrambles out of the way. In walks Mr. Strider, the principal, and a brunette boy with glasses.

The counselor nods in your direction before his eyes settle on the history teacher, a smirk gracing his lips. “Smooth as always, English.”

The teacher scoffs, waving his hand about in the air. “Oh, sod off, Strider.”

“Anyway,” Mrs. O’phee emphasizes, “We have been looking all over for you, Mr. English. You threw us for quite the loop!”

English rubs the back of his neck, “Ah, well, I have been a bit disoriented as of late.”

Mr. Strider snorts. This earns him an icy scowl from the other man.

Mrs. O’phee runs a hand through her hair idly. “We have a new student, Mr. English, and he is to be in one of your classes.”

“Is this everything, Mrs. Serket?” You ask, holding your papers out.

Mrs. Serket seems to snap out of a trance at that moment, turning around to look at you like you just grew a pair of bright orange horns. “You’re still here? Dear me, Karkat!” She glances at her watch. “You’ve missed your bus.”

You give a laborious sigh. “Gee, I wonder what held me up?” You glower at English. He gives you a guilty look in return.

English returns his focus to the new student “Ah, is this him?” He holds his hand out for the boy to shake.

The boy happily shakes the man’s hand, and Mr. English lets out a yelp. “Gotcha!” THe boy says victoriously.

“Kicking Christ in a dirty diaper!” He swears in surprize.

“Serves you right, dickweed.” You grumble.

Strider gives the new student a fist bump.

English glances from you to the counselor and the principal with a searching look. He hesitates before addressing you, “If it’s all the same, can you watch your mouth, Vantas?” English tries to reprimand you, but it’s more of a suggestion than it is a slap across the wrist.

You blink. “If it’s all the same, can you try to find a better time to hit on the people I’m busy speaking with, English? Much appreciated, thanks.”

“I was not  _ hitting _ on her, Karkat. There is no need to point fingers or make rash accusations! I humbly apologise for holding you up.” He looks almost pleading. It’s clear that he is willing you to change the subject.

The blonde counselor clears his throat awkwardly before intervening, “Save it for the playground, kids.” He looks at you. “Let’s find a way to get you home, freckles.”

Your forehead creases. “I don’t see a ‘freckles’ here, Mr. Strider. Just you, me, some mature, respectable people, and one suspenders-wearing idiot.”

Mr. Strider chuckles.

“Hey! Dirk, don’t encourage him!” English looks thoroughly flustered. He makes a point of cleaning the lenses on his glasses to forgo eye contact.

Strider smirk falls. “Hey English, why don’t you take a break for a while? There are donuts in the lounge.”

“But I had things to discuss with Mrs Serk-”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head off about that. Callie and I will handle it.” Strider opens the door in a sweeping gesture, holding it open as he looks earnestly at Mr. English.

He sulks before stumbling out of the room, giving the man holding it a rather dirty look.

“ _ Moving on _ ,” Mr. Strider promptly closes the door. “Luckily for us, Mrs. Serket, you happen to be another one of John’s teachers, so we didn’t lose too much ground in search of the elusive English.” He adjusts his tie, which is printed with tiny, galloping horses.

“Mrs. Serket is to be your homeroom teacher.” The principal chimes in cheerily, making an effort to recover from the most recent of the several debacles polluting her otherwise average day.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” He holds his hand out, smiling innocently.

She gives his hand a short glance before giving him a knowing smile. “Nice to meet you as well, John.” She forgoes the handshake for a curtsy and returns to her desk, resuming her fervent typing.

“Now then,” She begins, her eyes remaining on her computer screen, “We have just began our unit on Shakespeare. We haven’t gotten very far yet, so it shouldn’t be too hard to catch up. In fact,” She cranes her neck around her computer to look at you. “Karkat, how would you feel about helping our new student out?”

“That would be a bit counterproductive, considering that  _ I’m _ behind.” You take a seat on a nearby desk.

“Uh,” Strider takes a seat next to you, “I don’t think that would be such a bad idea to consider, Vantas, taking our recent discussion into account.” He raises his eyebrows at you, and then gives Aranea a nod.

You pause for a short while before replying, “Just because I’m not chummy with every other geek who stumbles into me, doesn’t mean I don’t have friends, Mr. Strider.” You push yourself off the desk and collect your things. “Can I have a pass to the office so that I can call my brother and tell him to pick me up?”

Aranea stands up, causing her office chair to collide with the adjacent wall. She clumsily pushes it back into place before semi-collectedly walking towards you. “Karkat, I would really appreciate it if you could do just this one favor for me. You and I both know that you enjoy some of the items being covered in this unit on a recreational level, and that it would be not be much of a task for you to assist the new student.”

You stop walking, shoulders falling to a slump. “He doesn’t even share the same class period with me.”

She looks put down for but a moment, crossing her legs. “Oh, well. Thank you for considering, I suppose. I can always find somebody else, possibly a student who shares his homeroom, as that would be more ideal anyway...”

Strider folds his arms, shooting an unreadable look towards Aranea, and she visibly tenses. Her eyes dart about the room, finally landing on the homework assignment in your hand. “How about this... how about we exempt that assignment in place for your assistance?”

The blonde man reveals a notepad from his vest pocket, and, using a orange pen, he scrawls a message on it.

You eye him skeptically, attempting to read his void expression as his orange eyes flit over the brightly colored print. He crosses his legs, absently rocking one of his feet to and fro. The room is silent if not for the light noises of his pen and the whirring heater that juts out of the wall.

At last, he carefully tears the freshly-written note from the small pad of paper and gingerly hands the note to the English teacher. They exchange a few looks upon her scanning over it. Mrs. Serket slowly adjusts her white-framed glasses before giving you a shaky grin. “So how does my offer sound?”

You contemplate it. The idea of decreasing your workload is tempting, but on the contrary, having to endure the idiocy of somebody you don’t even know sounds less-than-savory, possibly to the degree of breaking the deal. “I’m  _ flattered,  _ but I would rather not. I should really get to calling my older brother, as he is probably worried _ shitless _ about me.”

You continue on your merry way, shoving four-eyes out of the way as you exit the classroom. He stares past you absently, as if he was not just pushed into the wall and regarded with a less-than-kind look. You are sure to make no note of this whatsoever, stomping down the now deserted hallways in search of your locker.

It is not difficult to find, as it always reeks of week-old soda and weed. This is, of course, courtesy of your locker partner, one Gamzee Makara, ever polite as he is. You sure do love stowing your possessions and homework assignments in a locker with ever-sticky walls and the ever-present and skunk-like smell of marijuana. In the defense of your druggie friend, though, the stickiness is kept to a partially-respectful minimum on the top shelf of the locker, where you keep your items. As for the stench, though, you have been stopped more than once by the janitor and school security officer on the account of the fact that your locker smells like a house party in the seventies.

Makara, to your vast surprize, has never been caught with the substance actually on him or in his locker, which is a bit of a relief to you, as the guy is, as much as you loathe to admit it, your best friend. Unfortunately, however, you still have to deal with the fact that almost every article of clothing he owns smells like the noxious substance, and the second-hand scent still permeates your shared locker.

You exasperatedly grasp the sticky dial, spinning it from left to right until the locker opens with a metallic snap. You have to get up on the tips of your feet to unhook your backpack, placing it on the ground as you manage to free it from its musky, sticky prison. You wince as you discover that it smells very vaguely of dope.

Only temporarily disgusted, you unzip the bag, cramming your freshly-issued homework into it. You trade the papers for the most recent addition to your vast collection of romance novels;  _ The Truth About Forever  _ by Sarah Dessen, which you slowly withdraw from your backpack before grabbing one of the straps and slingling the fairly light bag over your shoulder. You crack it open after you close your locker, reading it as you stroll to the office, where you will have to call Kankri; something that you do not look forward to in the least, but a task you will now have to partake in on the account of that insufferable, buck-toothed history teacher.

You can never just hold a brief conversation with him. Many kids fear being lectured by their parents, but they haven’t got  _ jack shit _ to fear. Kankri makes a habit out of immersing you in a verbal wall of text every time you utter a single word to the guy. You make a point out of avoiding him just so that you don’t get caught up in his seemingly endless prattle. You do not look upon the possibility of having to call him with pleasure.

The only reason you have made such haste in calling him is because you want nothing more than to just go home. You look forward to live chatting with Sollux, as he promised you that he would have time for it today. You also would like to get a chance to sit down with your book, or practice coding for a while, though you’re awful at it.

The office door looms ahead of you at the end of the hall. Soon, you will be out of this building and in your bedroom, which, luckily for you, does not reek of cheap soda and weed.

 

♥

 

The door slams behind the annoyed student as they leave Mrs. Serket’s classroom. After they leave, the room goes frighteningly silent. You awkwardly stare at the door in confusion.

You are bewildered, yet intrigued. 

“Well that happened.” The blonde man at your side finally says, a sigh shortly following.

The principal places a hand on her temple. “Why must Karkat be that way?”

“I don’t know. How about we worry about Vantas later, and deal with the issues at hand? We still don’t have some of John’s paperwork complete, and I would like to get that out of the way as quickly as possible.”

She gives a small smile. “Right.”

Mrs. Serket turns in her chair, seeing the few of you off. “Thank you for coming to see me, John! It was a pleasure meeting you, and I cannot wait to have you in my class.” She says cheerily, though her words sound a bit hollow.

You wish that your dad hadn’t asked you to stay after school, but it’s not like you would have had anything to do at home anyway; you don’t know anybody in your new neighborhood, and the computer in your room hasn’t been hooked up yet. The only thing you would have been able to do was unpack boxes, and you would much rather stick around at school than do that.

Mrs. O’Phee and Mr. Strider lead you out of the classroom, but you still have questions. You wonder who that kid in the purple sweater was, and why she was so eager to leave. 

“Who was she?” You ask the white-haired woman, as she seems much more up to conversation than the counselor does, and you feel like she would give you more of a straight answer.

“That was your new English teacher, John.” She answers warmly. Her voice reminds you vaguely of Nanna’s, though with more of an English accent.

You purse your lips, slightly annoyed. “No, the redhead. You know, the one who was swearing a whole bunch.”

“Oh, you mean Karkat? Well-”

Mr. Strider intervenes, “Let’s not talk about Karkat, okay?” His forehead creases as he searches your eyes. “Alright? Save that conversation for another day.”

The principal leans towards the tall blonde, whispering something to him. You don’t hear what she says, but you do hear his response.

“We’ll take care of it on Wednesday, alright? I’m tired of dealing with this.” He rasps in return.

“Alright. I’m sorry for asking about it, Dirk. I know that this has resulted in a lot of work for you.” She frowns. Her hands are held behind her back, and she walks at a slow, but even pace.

It is not long after the three of you continue walking before the tall man beside you raises an arm to stop you. A dull  _ umpf _ escapes you as his pale forearm hits your midsection. Mr. Strider has halted you and Mrs. Ophee at the end of the ninth grade wing, where the hall intersects with the other three wings. A door labeled,  _ Main Office  _ looms ahead about 30 or so feet away.

In the middle of the hallway, though, stands a peculiar looking man. He seems to be in his early or mid twenties, though he certainly doesn’t dress like it. His black hair is slicked back in such a way that hasn’t been fashionable for at least five or six decades. He is clad in jeans and a white polo, which he has chosen to tuck in. A cigarette, unlit, hangs from his mouth. He gives each of you a superficial ogle before striding over.

“Hello.” He adds a thick dollop of emphasis to the  _ H _ . He sounds angry, but looks relatively calm, or so calm somebody as seemingly uptight as he is can be.

“Hello there. What can we do for you?” The principal greets uniformly with a small but unsure smile.

Mr. Strider takes a less tender approach to the situation, studying the man with distaste. “Smoking isn’t permitted in the school building,  _ Sir _ .”

“Relax, cat. Wasn’t smoking it or anything.” He says in such a way that is both forced and mellow. “See, I’m the legal guardian of Eridan Ampora.”

The blonde counselor frowns. “Have you checked with the front office yet? Adults require a legal ID in order to remove students from campus.”

“Yes, I have, pops.” The man places a hand on his hip in an exaggerated gesture.

The face Mr. Strider makes is few things other than comical. He looks as if he just stuck his nose in a carton of long-expired milk; an expression that is quite out of place on his normally stoic face. “You look like you’re about the same age as me.”

Mrs. Ophee goes in for a quick save, taking a moment to step between the two men. “Well then, what grade is your son in?”

“He’s actually my cousin.” The mock-greaser replies.

“Alright, what grade is your cousin in?”

He scratches the back of his neck, pulling a vague sneer, “I think he’s a freshman.”

Mrs. Ophee takes a pregnant breath before releasing it in nothing more than a stumped pause. “You think? If you don’t mind me asking, were you sent by a parent?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a run-of-the-mill, 50s!cronkri fic wherein cronus and kankri take their brothers to the pool and kankri is sassy. written in february of 2013.

“What in the name a all thin’s tolerable are you doin’? We’re goin’ to be late, you incompetent moron!”

It’s Saturday, and you have been sleeping in for much too long. You know this because your younger brother of thirteen years, Eridan, has done you the much-appreciated favor of kicking down your bedroom door and making a noise not unlike that of a dying rhinoceros in order to wake you up.

Every other Saturday, Eridan has a swim meet at the local fitness center, which he makes a point of reminding you of. Frequently. It is not, however, that you forget about it. It is simply that you do not care enough to drag yourself out of bed at seven in the morning to drive him to said meet. On more than one occasion, you have refused to drive him, but on none of which have you actually managed to endure his fussing long enough to completely avoid the unsavory task. Henceforth, you end up having to haul your less-than-willing self out of your warm bed to take the ungrateful brat to his swim practices.

You bring one hand to your face to rub the remainder of what was once peaceful sleep from your eyes.”Why can’t you find someone else to take you to your fucking sissy sports? I ain’t got the time.”

Eridan snorts haughtily. “What do you mean you don’t got the time? Stop actin’ like you got all these places to be an’ shit to do. An’ for your information, Cro, competitive swimming is not a...” he pauses before practically spitting the words, “Sissy sport.”

“What time is it anyhow?” You ask. The bed creaks heavily as you sit up.

“Six fuckin’ fifty! An’ you’re still sittin’ in bed, jackin’ off to the pin ups on your ceiling, you wet sack a dog shit!” He whines, making wild gestures.

Your frown deepens. “I haven’t done shit. Your watch must be off. I set my alarm for six-thirty.”

“My watch is fine! Your alarm clock is a piece a garbage!” With that, Eridan grabs your hapless alarm clock and tosses it out the open window. You hear it hit the ground with a soft, metallic  _ thunk. _

Your sleepy gaze darkens, and you get up to look out the window, bewildered. The little metal alarm clock that used to sit on your nightstand is shattered on the green, well kept lawn below. “Hey chief, that’s my fucking property you just tossed out the window.”

“Yeah? Well, you can’t blame an alarm clock for the fact that I called to wake you no short a six fuckin’ times with no response.” He folds his arms, his icy eyes searing into you.

You mutter a short string of profanity before lightly shoving him out of your room. “I’ll be out in a moment, alright?” You say gruffly before slamming the door in his face.

 

♥

  
  


As soon as you are sure Eridan has stormed down the hall and away from the entrance to your room, you run to the closet. As you walk in, you make a fond note of the well-populated racks of clothing hanging up on each wall of your roomy, walk-in closet, that you, admittedly, don’t really need, but enjoy having.

Instead of making a huge deal over what to wear, you leave on the white tank top you slept in and decide to just pull one of your leather jackets over it. You then swap your flannel pyjama pants for a pair of jeans. You don’t wanna look like you’re trying too hard. Gotta keep it cool, Cronus.

You hurry over to your personal bathroom and look in the mirror. Unsurprisingly, your dark brown hair is in a rather undesirable state of disarray. Cowlicks have sprung up on all sides of your head, and it ends up taking quite of bit of mousse and elbow grease to smooth them down into your usual, suave ‘do. It works, though, and after grabbing a pack of cigs off the top of your dresser, you’re set.

Just as you reach for the doorknob, it turns and opens, and you nearly collide with Eridan, with his bag of swim gear in tow.

He studies you for a moment before backing out of your way. “Are you ready to go now? At this rate, we’re goin’ to be ten minutes late even if we hurry.”

“What about breakfast?” You ask, jutting your thumb in the direction of the kitchen. You really could use a bowl of cornflakes or something right now, taking your growling stomach into consideration.

“I ate breakfast half an hour ago. Get somethin’ to eat when you get home.” Is his curt reply. You are left behind as he stomps his way down the stairs and through the garage door, nearly elbowing one of the many fishbowls in your large house onto the floor in his wake.

You follow him begrudgingly, trudging down the stairs. You grab your car keys off the hook in the hallway and fling the garage door open. He leans expectantly on your purple Corvette.

“Hey, ease off there, pal! You might scratch the paint.” You shoo him away as you unlock the driver’s side door.

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes when he goes to open the passenger’s side door. “God forbid, somebody leaves a knick in your car.”

“When you get a car, you’ll understand, kiddo.” You reply sourly.

You each take a seat, and much to chagrin, instead of shutting up, he decides to make another snide remark. “Then again, I suppose I would be pretty fuckin’ upset if the only thing I could hold a positive relationship with got ruined by some asshole who didn’t understand.”

“Can you take it easy on the bitchin’ there? If somebody was goin’ out of their way to drive  _ me _ to  _ my _ stupid shit, I wouldn’t be talking to ‘em like that.” You turn the key, and the engine gives a roar.

“Stupid shit?” He pauses to close his door before facing you. “As if you would know what it was like to have somebody go outta’ their way for you. An’ it’s not my fault shitty people like you are so easy to be angry at, so back off.” He leans back into the seat, eyeing you with a dour expression.

Few words are exchanged for the remainder of the short car ride. You choose to be the better person and leave him be. How does he even know who is and who isn’t a shitty person? Who is he to judge, what with his creepy obsession with Meenah’s little sis and his trash mouth. He is probably much shittier a person than you are. Besides, if you were even a shitty person to begin with, you wouldn’t be doing him this favor right now. Shitty people don’t do nice things for their bratty, undeserving little brothers.

Your thoughts are probably a bit too preoccupied with such things, and, combined with the effects of having recently woken up with no breakfast to prepare you for the day, you may not have been entirely alert. In addition to that, though you refuse to believe it, you have been reminded no short of a metric fuckton of times by a wide variation of people that you’re sort of terrible at driving, even under  _ good _ circumstances. Frankly, you’re surprised you even remembered the existence of stop-signs and traffic lights on this particular morning.

“Cro, you just ran a light.” Eridan points out towards the end of the ride. In his voice is a mixture of annoyance and concern. You don’t even bother with facing him, less because you want to keep your eyes on the road, and more because he is merely a nuisance that you shouldn’t lend precious eye-contact to anyway.

You shrug. “Just a little light, baby brother. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“No it ain’t. You coulda’ gotten t-boned back there. For somebody who’s so concerned with their car, you sure don’t act like it. Your precious Corvette won’t look so nice when there’s two dead bodies sittin’ in it, that’s for sure.” His forehead creases.

You heave a heavy sigh. “Lay off. It’s not your car anyway, squirt.” You wave a hand about in the air before returning to the wheel.

“Yes, but it’s my fuckin’ life, an’ I don’t plan on losin’ it to the fact that my shitstain of a brother can’t drive for shit.” He spits, his hands balling into tight fists.

When you don’t reply, he just slumps down into his seat and looks out the window. Man, why can’t he just be cool and laid back, like you are? You assume it’s his stupid middle-schooler hormones kicking in or some bullshit like that. If your pop was around to hear him swearing like that, he’d have smacked the nose straight off his face.

A few minutes later, you arrive at the fitness center. After turning off the engine, you use the rearview mirror to take a quick look at your hair. You note that one of your cowlicks is beginning to resurface, so you take a moment to comb it back down.

“Can you stop takin’ your sweet time? They’ve probably already started timed laps.” He elbows you, and you give him a scowl.

As he opens the car door, you think of what he said about your being a shitty person, so you’ll prove to him that you’re not, and maybe even get the chance to mingle with that swim teacher of his. You quickly think of a way to go about doing this, and an idea comes to you.

“If you wanted me to, Eridan, I could stick around for your practice. You’re kinda right in that I didn’t have much planned for today.” You say, fiddling with your comb.

He pulls a sneer. “Knowin’ you, you’ll probably just hit on the other parents.” He grabs his backpack, and makes a move to close the door, but you quickly open yours.

“Aw, come on, Eridan, I’m just trying to cheer you on and be a good brother.” You say hollowly, standing.

Eridan groans heavily, slamming the car door. “Fine. Just don’t get in the way, an’ don’t get me kicked out a there. I swear if you embarrass me in front a Fef and the rest a the swim team, I’ll end you.”

♥

 

Watching each of the kids do laps is, admittedly, pretty boring. Though Eridan does make the best time of any of the swimmers, you still struggle to care about this. It’s just a bunch of middle-school age kids swimming back and forth. The only thing less exciting than this is watching paint dry, and that’s arguable.

You do take a little bit of entertainment from a kid who nearly drowns the second he hits the water, and you’re a little bit curious as to why they allowed such an embarrassment to be on their team. You’re still bored out of your mind, though, so you decide to strike up a conversation with the guy sitting next to you in the bleachers, who you’ve seen around your school, but never really stricken up a conversation with before.

You elbow him lightly. “Man, who let that kid in here? One of my granny’s cats could probably swim better than that.”

He reels when you touch him, but answers anyway, furrowing his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“That kid with the grey trunks nearly took a nap at the bottom of the pool.” You say, pulling a smoke out of the package in your pocket and lighting up. “Guess he ain’t entirely awake anyhow.” A small  _ snrk  _ escapes you.

“I hope you aren’t saying that in reference to my brother.” He then eyes your cigarette with distaste, holding himself in such a way that makes him seem pompous without even speaking. “Also, could you not? I have asthma.”

“Not what?” You take a drag off your cigarette, attempting to blow a smoke ring.

“Smoke, please.” You side-eye him. He has dark, reddish brown hair and very pale skin. There is a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. He bears a thick, red sweater in spite of the fact that it is springtime, and looks like just the kind of pretentious asshole to put a damper on things. He’s the only person there who happens to be your age, though, so you’re left with few options but to continue conversation.

“Sure thing, sailor.” You answer smugly, taking a second drag.

He huffs. “No! Do  _ not _ smoke! In addition to that, please, do not speak so harshly of my brother. He does his best.”

You snort, putting out your cig on the bench. “Clearly his best isn’t enough.”

“Do not take this as an attack on your person, but my, you don’t seem to be very tactful. Multiple times I have addressed the fact that the person you’re mocking is my kin, and you continue in your efforts to criticize him. Tell me now, have I done something to phase you, or are you just being cantankerous and rude?” He smooths his sweater over before returning his glare to you.  _ Man _ , you think,  _ If only he were as laid-back and easygoing as I am, maybe he could pry that pole outta his ass and grow a sense of humour. _

“Hey, it ain’t my fault he’s a lost cause in the water.” You shrug, resting your feet on  a swim bag that somebody has placed on the bench in front of you.

His expression only seems to darken further. “Oh, and I suppose you’re some kind of expert when it comes to swimming?” He eyes the way your feet are perched upon the bag, but says nothing in regards to it, other than a haughty snort.

You note that his features are rounded and somewhat effeminate. You decide to use it as a tool to derail him. “Actually,  _ dollface _ , I am. Until eighth grade, I went to a private school, where swimmin’ was part of the curriculum.”

“There still had to have been a time when you were new to the sport. It’s unlikely for anybody to be inherently good at something. We are all born the same, after all.” He points out, waving his index finger about in the air. 

You scratch your chin. “Nope. I was pretty good at it even when I started. You could say that I was a natural.”

“Well, few, if any, are true ‘naturals’, as you put it. Some must work harder than others to achieve things. It would be ridiculous to have everything, if anything at all, simply by merit of entitlement! What are things worth then? Hm?” He pauses, as if allowing you to answer, but continues when he spots the slightest sign of an objection. “Nothing! Regardless of exactly what it is in question, the value of something increases the harder one has to work for it to be obtained.” He folds his arms tightly over his narrow chest. a look of veiled disgust contorting his features.

You roll your eyes. “I’d have to disagree with you there. People aren’t remembered by how hard they work for shit. They’re remembered for getting it at all.” You rest your elbows on the bench behind yours, giving a sort yawn as you ease backward.

Suddenly, a whistle is blown, and the background noise of splashing ceases. Red Sweater’s head turns, but you merely shift your gaze. The instructor, one Meenah Peixes, steps down from the lifeguard’s chair and gestures for all of the swimmers to gather. “A’ight, so the end of the school year is about a month or two off. So, what I’m thinkin’ for the summertime is addin’ a codple a extra practice sessions in.” She surveys each student gathered around her, her critical stare lingering on little Grey Shorts, but not for long. “What I’m plannin to do is all Tuesdays an’ Saturdays, instead a this every other week bullcarp we got goin’. How’s that sound?”

You groan inwardly, tuning the rest of her annoucements out. To your misfortune, Red Sweater notices and gives you a filthy look.

“What is upsetting  _ you _ ?” He asks, placing a hand on his hip.

You give a long sigh and sit up, retracting your feet from  the conveniently placed swim bag. You point to Eridan, who stands a few feet away from the swim teacher. “See that kiddo down there in the front? Y’know, with the blue trunks?”

His eyes flicker in Eridan’s general direction, but little more. “Yes?”

“That there’s my kid brother, Eridan. He’s the best on the team, and he’s got the mindset for it. Whenever that coach says jump, he’s gonna ask how high.” Your shoulders sink. “So, if she says he’s gotta be gettin’ up at the asscrack of dawn, then so do I, ‘cause apparently I’m his chauffeur.”

He holds his stare for a moment before it falls to his hands, which have returned from  crossed on his chest to his lap. “Though I can see such things as being an inconvenience, I fail to see why it burdens you in such a way. He is your brother, is he not? I do the same thing for my young brother without a second thought. Why is it such an issue for you?” He crosses his legs, gathering the small gym bag sitting beside him and holding it in his lap, as if he is worried that it will be stolen, probably by your likes.

You give him a scrutinizing glare. “What are you gettin’ at, pal?” You grip the edge on the bench, knuckles paling.

“I was not ‘gettin’ at’ anything. All I was saying was that you should feel more obligated towards your family, as they are those closest to you. Try to see things like this as less of a chore and more of an opportunity to get to know your brother.” He unzips a compartment on his gym bag, unearthing from it a paper bag, from which he withdraws a small plastic bag of crackers.

“So it’s safe for me to assume that  you’re just captivated by a bunch of pathetic shrimps splashing about?” Your eyes narrow, but you don’t think he notices, as he seems to now be intent on avoiding them.

His face goes blank, and he pauses to swallow a cracker before replying uneasily. “Well, no, but,” He shifts, attempting to compose himself. “But he is my brother, and it is my duty as his primary role model and only...  _ purely _ positive influence to be there for him and cheer him on.”

You pick up a faltering note on those last few syllables, a small smirk growing on your face. “Are you absolutely sure there, sailor?”

“I am more than sure. I think it would be beneficial for both of us if you were to mind your own business.” He continues to fidget uneasily.

Your smirk vanishes, a frown replacing it promptly. “I could say the same to you, dollface. My ethical stances and whatnot aren’t exactly public soil, either. I’d say that you owe me a straight answer.”

He gives a heavy sigh, as if you are a young child and your presence is grating on him. “Fine then. I may also be here as a means of ‘getting out of the house’ as one might say. I do not wish to partake in the debacle I suspect to be occurring in my home right now.” He looks at you, if only for a moment.  “In addition to that, I would prefer it if you could use less... emasculating terms to address me. I have a name other than ‘dollface’, you know.”

“What do you mean by ‘debacle’, softy?”

He pulls a grimace. “My name is Kankri, not dollface, and certainly not ‘softy’.” He wraps his arms around his midsection in embarrassment, the bag of crackers hanging limply from his left hand. 

“That’s just swell, Cranky, but do you plan on answerin’ my question?” You press.

His soft features twist into a grimace. “It is pronounced  _ Kankri,  _ and I do not wish to share such things with you, especially taking the fact that I hardly know you into consideration.” The crackers slip from his hand and onto the floor, but he must not notice, and if he does, he doesn’t seem to care.

“C’mon, guy, I told you a little bit about myself. It’s only a fair trade.” You bend down to retrieve the fallen snack.

He purses his lips. “I digress. You bad-mouthed my brother and bragged about yours. I do not even know your name. Why would I share details about my home life with you?”

Annoyed, you toss the bag of crackers to him without much care. It misses him, hitting the wooden bench. He spares it a small glance. “Well, Kan, my friends call me Cro.”

“‘Crow’?” He swipes the crackers, and they vanish into the larger gym bag on his lap. “Like a bird? Do they call you that because they think that you are a pest?”

You give a hollow chuckle, fighting the urge to do something you’ll regret. “Good one, but no. It’s short for Cronus.”

He straightens, raking a wayward curl out of his face. “Well then,  _ Cro,  _ my point still stands. I do not plan on sharing such personal endeavors with you. Even upon setting my assumptions on your character aside, I am still hesitant to discuss the matters of my home life with you. I do not intend to police your actions, as you are your own person and free to do what you please so long as you are adhering to federal law, but it is poor etiquette to press others on issues that are of little or no concern to you. It is  _ my _ opinion that you should work towards having better decorum.” You look him over again, expecting to see his round face betraying a flustered look, but are surprised to find that he has resumed his err of inoffensive detachment, loosely veiled arrogance, and  _ something more _ . Though he resists it, a smile is tugging at his thin lips.

That smug  _ fuck _ .

“Criticizing my manners now, are we?” You cock your head, your teeth gritting.

“They leave a lot to be desired.” He answers, foregoing eye-contact.

“Well listen here,” His head turns slowly. “I’m a busy guy, and people like me don’t got the time to learn our ‘P’s and ‘Q’s at granny’s tea parties.”

“Neither do I, especially taking the fact that I do not have a grandmother into consideration, and my, er,  _ mother  _ as I suppose you could call her, isn’t fond of tea.” He crosses his legs. “She drinks quite a bit of coffee, though.”

You give him a blank look “That’s beside the point. I’m not some little momma’s boy like you are. What good are ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ gonna do you in a fight?”

“I object to violence on a moral level. I believe it to be a childish and unrefined way to go about solving a dispute. Anyone can debate with their fists, but it takes a certain note of class to avoid such things and argue a point without personal attacks or unwanted physical contact on or from any party concerned.” He laces his fingers together, setting them on top of the bag in his lap.

Your brow furrows. “Now who told you all of that garbage? Your baby sister?”

“Firstly, I came to that conclusion on my own accord, and secondly, I do not have a sister. I have one brother, and he is not one to preach nonviolence or proper etiquette. Quite the opposite actually. He is, er, rancorous.”

“Rancorous?” You parrot questioningly.

“Cantankerous.” you waits for a response, but to no avail. “Ornery? Often, he chooses to express himself in a way that is very-”

“Annoying?” You chime.

“No...” He poises his hand at his chin in thought. He seems to be a pretty animated guy.  
“Rebellious?”

“Not quite, more so-”

“Angry?” You suggest, scooching closer.

“Yes, that seems to summarize things quite well, although I was looking for a word that describes his person in better detail. Though he is, by nature, very loud and short-fused, he has the tendency to use such traits in a way that is honorable, and, on occasion, sweet. Although I do wish he would find a grasp on my ideas, as I feel he would benefit from them.”

You grimace. “How could anybody benefit from what you have to say?”

“Excellent question. I have prepared a relatively short oral essay as an answer to that very question, as I am asked quite frequently...”

♥

You sit on the bench in the locker room, pulling on a pair of grey slacks. The sound of wet feet hitting tile occasionally echos through the large room, and there is always the faint sound of splashing resounding from the pool just outside the entrance, but it is otherwise very quiet. Few of the other kids on your swim team remain, you conclude resignedly. You’ll be glad to start on your way home.

More often than not, you question why you even bothered with swimming. You struggle to keep your head above the water while the others on the team make lap after lap around you. Seeing the others do so well, though, may hurt your pride, but it does nothing to convince you to give up. You’ve always been one to accept a challenge wholeheartedly.

You fish around in your locker, retrieving a balled-up pair of socks. Upon separating them, you motion to pull one on, but you are interrupted.

“Kar!”

Practically jumping out of your skin, your drop the sock and hit your head on the metal lockers. “Eridan! What in the festering expanse of purgatory was that for?”

He stomps over, his blue scarf billowing behind him. “You an’ Kan need ta go. Now.”

“What? Why the blistering hell would I do that? I only just put my pants on. Also, Kanaya isn’t even in this class, you blithering shitstain.” You crawl off of the bench and peer under the locker in search of your fallen sock.

“Not  _ that _ Kan. I’m talkin’ about your detestable brother!”

“No arguments there.” You reply flatly, spotting the sock and making a grab for it. “What’s the problem, though?”

Eridan pushes his thick glasses up on his nose. “I can’t get a word in edgewise, Kar. He’s got a monopoly on Cro, an’ he won’t go the fuck away unless you blunder outta this disgustin’ locker room and tell him to take you home.” He hauls you up, and you struggle pitifully in his grip. “You need to pull him offa’ my brother so I can fuckin’ leave already. Class ended twenty minutes ago, and I’m meetin’ Fef for an early lunch in fifteen minutes!” 

Upon finally managing to shake free, you sneer in distaste. “If you want him to leave your brother alone, just give him a poke.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asks, his voice going up an octave.

You sit back down, returning to putting your socks on. “Exactly what it sounds like. Just go up and jab him in the ribs, you incompetent waste of organic matter.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” You demand, placing your feet in your sneakers.

Eridan knits his eyebrows. “No, ‘cause I don’t know what the hell that’s going to accomplish.”

After you finish lacing your shoes, you give a heavy grunt, throw some junk into your locker, and stomp out of the locker room. Eridan struggles to keep up without slipping on the water-slicked tile floor of the room.

Spotting Kankri, who blathers away at Eridan’s trash monger of a sibling, you make your way up the bleachers. As the younger Ampora trails behind you, he stumbles a on the metal benches, not entirely able to keep up. He’s only fast in the water, you suppose. You stop a few feet away from Kankri, who still hasn’t noticed you. Cronus, however, spots you, but doesn’t seem to make any vocalizations concerning such.

“Watch this.”

You draw closer, waiting for Kankri to make another one of his wild gestures. Surely enough, the opportunity presents itself within a few moments, and you go in. Using two fingers, you give a hard jab to the soft flesh between his hipbones and the bottom of his ribs.

Kankri jumps about a foot out of his seat, a loud shriek escaping him. He stands, facing you, and you note that his face is reddening. “Whatever was that for? Karkat, time and time again have I addressed that you do not strike or touch me in any way without my permission. It is disrespectful of my personal space and my wishes. It is also especially uncouth of you to distract me during a lecture, I mean, er, conversation.” He pauses in his scolding to give Karkat a deadly glare. “You know that I take discomfort from unwanted physical contact. Do not do that again unless there is an absolute emergency. I am your older sibling and you  _ will  _ adhere to such things. I do not ask much of you, and-”

“Jesus, Cranky, all he did was poke you.” Cronus comments.

Eridan takes the opportunity to regain Cronus’s attention. “Cro, what the hell? What are you doin’? We have to be outta here  _ now,  _ or I’ll miss havin’ lunch with Fef. Stop talkin’ to this geek and  _ let’s go _ .”

Kankri looks almost as though he’s about to object, but collects himself. “Karkat, we should return home soon. Porrim has been expecting us, I’m sure.” He grabs the handles of his gym bag, beginning the trip down the metal bleachers. You scramble down after him, the goggles hanging around your neck bouncing limply on your chest.

Before passing through the door to the lobby, you glance back at Eridan, who is still badgering Cronus. You pass the chatty receptionist at the front desk without so much as a brief goodbye.

By the time you and Kankri make it to the car, neither of you has said anything.

Soon enough, though, you seem to have jinxed yourself. As he puts the key in the door of the green Disotto, he begins a tirade. “I’m not fond of Eridan’s brother.”

“Welcome to the club, Kankri. Most people aren’t fond of him.” You say, hopping in through the driver’s side door and sliding into shotgun.

He gingerly takes a seat next to you, tightening and untightening his grip on the metal steering wheel. “So he just lives with it? How can someone stomach being so widely disliked?”

“You’re not everyone’s best friend, either. You know that, right?”

Kankri huffs. “I am more than aware, but it would be wrong of me to treat others poorly just because that is how I am being treated. I am above such petty things.”

“You seem to be above everything.” You grab the gym bag from Kankri’s lap and toss it into the back.

“Karkat, you know that I do not value myself above others.” He states.

You slump down in the seat until the dashboard obstructs the majority your view out the window, with the exception of the cloudless sky and a few streetlights. “Are we going to start this again? If you don’t value yourself above anybody else, then stop acting like everybody is some kind of stain on your pristine, white tapestry of aloof thickheadedness and raw stupidity and put your feet on the fucking ground along with the rest of us.”

Your comment goes largely unacknowledged. “Perhaps I can reconcile him.”

“What? Why can’t you keep your gigantic fucking nose out of other people’s business, you blithering shitsmear? Also, why Cronus of all people? This is why you need to make some more friends and stop cooping yourself up with Porrim. Her need to meddle in everyone else’s affairs like some kind of authoritative life coach is beginning to rub off on you.” You hear him start up the engine and switch gears, but you don’t face him.

“I’m not doing it for any kind of gratification, Karkat. I do not  _ meddle _ . Porrim concerns herself with others because she wishes to gossip. All I wish is to improve other people’s lives.” He retorts indignantly.

You blink, sitting up. “How do you expect to help somebody else when you can’t even get your own life under control?”

“Whatever does that mean?” He snaps in defense.

You give him a glance out of the corner of your eye. “You have the social skills of the average baboon, you’re more out of touch than Marie Antoinette during the French revolution, and equally as self-righteous. Christ forbid somebody touches  _ you,  _ though, as you freak out at the slightest of physical contact. You know the titles of more books than names of people, and you’re so caught up in your own opinions that whenever somebody else has any form of opposing argument, it’s like a slap across the face. Lastly, you’re sixteen years old- almost sixteen, and I don’t think you even know what it means to go out on a date, let alone have a girlfriend.”

“I am certainly in-touch! I’m very well adjusted. I doubt you have the slightest of whom Marie Antoinette even  _ is _ outside of the rare occasions when you actually listen to your history teacher! I am making the mature decision to forgo trends and popular culture for the sake of my studies. Also, please do not make fun of my phobia of unwanted physical contact. There are many people just like me who do not appreciate being poked or touched without permission.” Kankri stops for a moment to mull over your comment. “In addition! My romantic life is none of yours, or Porrim’s, or anyone else’s concern! I will find someone when I am feel just to do so. I just have not been, er, presented the opportunity to yet. Maybe I am celibate.”

“What does that even mean?” You ask, bracing yourself as Kankri stomps on the brakes at a stoplight in poorly-concealed anger.

He scoffs. “This is not something we need to or should discuss further. I’m afraid that I am going to lose my temper, so let’s find a new avenue of discussion.”

You grumble inwardly, looking out the window at the passing buildings. “You know, all I’m trying to say is that you need to let people manage for themselves. Who gives a shit if Cronus is a raging sack of phalli to everyone he meets. Let him fuck his own life up.”

“But Karkat-”

“People can’t change other people. Situations change people. He’s going to get himself in a piss poor position and he’s gonna fucking learn from it- or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll get himself killed and no one’s going to show up for his funeral. Either way, it’s not your job to micromanage his life.” You notice a group of giggling girls roller skating down the sidewalk. You dourly note that Nepeta Leijon is among them, and avert your gaze from the window. You look back to Kankri, but he looks rather put out.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Why not avoid all of that though? Why can’t I just be helpful?”

“Because that’s how life is, you ignorant blockhead, and your idea of helping somebody will probably just put them, or worse,  _ you _ , in deeper shit.”

Kankri turns the radio on, and conversation ends there, with the exception of the occasional, “You missed your turn, dumbass.” or Kankri’s relatively quiet humming to the Chopin tape he has in. It takes about ten minutes longer than it should to get home, as your brother alternates between episodic road rage and driving at a snail’s pace. He tries to be a safe driver, and usually he is, but Kankri has an even shorter fuse than you do, and when somebody cuts him off or tailgates, you can bet every good dollar you have that he’ll forgo safety in favor of expressing his displeasure with, and you quote; “The fact that some people need to get their god, or uh, gosh damn driver’s license confiscated and not returned to them until they learn how to fu-fudging drive!”

The moment Kankri shifts gears into park upon stopping in the driveway, you open the door, tossing your duffle bag over your shoulder. By the time you hear Kankri object, you’re already at the kitchen door. All you want to do at this point is fix yourself a glass of water and take a nap.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a human/slice of life au where an adult dirk has to raise his illegitimate half-brother, dave. it's dave's first day of preschool. written in december of 2012.

August 23rd, 1997; 3:23 AM

“Bo?”

The door creaks open, allowing the light from the hallway to spill into your bedroom. You shift, blinking the remnants of blurriness from your sleep-ridden eyes. Propping yourself up on a pillow, you blindly run your fingers over the surface of your nightstand in search of  your shades. You grasp the polarized lenses and push them up onto your nose, turning to face the intruder.

It is, unsurprisingly, your half brother of only four years, Dave Strider.

You were aware of this before you even bothered a glance at him, for he is the only person you know who can’t pronounce the word, “Bro” properly. You do not, however, hold this against him. He’s four, for Christ’s sake.

Dave has only lived with you for the past year or so. You have been his legal guardian since the arrest of your father. In all honesty, you were not keenly aware of his existence until he started coming to visit you during your father’s working hours. You, in short, have been Dave’s babysitter for the better part of the past three years. You actually have no idea who Dave’s mother is. You have been told, however, that he is the rather unexpected result of a one night stand gone wrong. You are in no way surprised or perturbed by this. These are the things you have come to expect from your old man, a widower who has simply stopped caring about the consequences of his actions. 

The death of your mother was in no way tragic, however. There was no car crash, heart attack, murder, or any other corny, silver-screen parent death involved. She had breast cancer. The event of her death was in no way untimely. She was lucky to have lived as long as she did, and you take it in stride, no pun on your surname intended. You also suppose it is for the best. You were already a legal adult and living alone when she had passed. You got a rather patronizing phone call from a nurse who was on duty at the time of her departure, which was at the very most, taxing, but not tragic or heart wrenching in any way. It is true that you are rather detached and have been labeled as an introvert on more than one occasion, but this wouldn’t change how things went with your mom. Upon her death, you had already delivered your final good-byes. You had enjoyed the time she was around.

Your dad, though, didn’t take things well. Straight to Dr. Liquor’s therapy ward he went. Told that asshole his whole life story, speech in a slur and ass on a barstool. Then came the need to find new love, which only resulted in hit-it-and-quit-its with whatever easy broad accepted an offer for a beer or two.

The sleeping around ended when he got a phone call from some womans’ rather infuriated fiance saying that he’s not taking this bastard child and that he was to come take this kid immediately. So, and rather begrudgingly might one add, he took custody of Dave.

You, of course, being the well informed gent you are, found out right away. Right away, entailing, of course, almost a year and a half following the debacle, when you became the designated babysitter, because you, of course, don’t work nights, and don’t need time to sleep without a baby crying every time you close your eyes. No sir, you are completely able to just drop whatever the hell you’re doing to tend to the desires and little crawling problems of your father. He then insisted that you should be listed as a secondary guardian in case something happens. Something, of course, did happen. You gotta give him kudos for his foresight. Said something happened to be him getting arrested for three counts of manslaughter while drunk driving.

You are now pinned with the role of a parental unit, even though you are in no way prepared or wishing to do so.

This is not to say, however, that you don’t like the little spitfire Dave has proved himself to be. He’s not a bad kid; if anything, he’s just the victim of poor circumstances. And you can’t say you aren’t fond of him.

“Bo.” He says, drawing closer, his tiny arm wrapped around Cal’s midsection.

“S’goin’ on, little man?” You say, stifling a yawn.

Dave doesn’t reply, whether it be for his pride, or for the fact that he’s just tired. All he does is yawn proceed to climb up onto your bed and curl into the sheets, placing Cal at the foot of the bed.

“‘Nother nightmare?” You ask, looking at Dave’s tousled mop of blonde hair. He never lets you do anything with it, so you just give him a mop-top cut every time his hair starts to fall into his eyes.

He looks up at you and gives you a curt nod. “There was snakes and everything,”

“Pretty scary shit right there.” You say, nodding back. with a sideways glance.

He gives you a fleeting look, and you begrudgingly open your arms to him. You never were very big on hugs and cuddles and things like that, but you’ll make an exception for Dave.

He happily collapses into your chest. You aren’t too thrilled about the results of letting him do this, of which is getting snot, tears, and whatever the hell else happens to be on his face on your shirt, so, in an attempt to minimize the amount of kid gunk involved, you tuck him in beside you after he falls asleep.

Dave often sits there and yaks for two hours before actually sleeping, however, so you can already hear songbirds and see the sun coming up by the time he’s actually asleep.

One of Dave’s most notable traits, or at least in the time you’ve known him, is that he, unlike many other kids his age, hasn’t yet grown out of the touchy-feely phase. The touchy-feely phase is what soccer moms refer to as that span of time that your kid wants to do nothing but hang on you (and you  _ do not _ know this because you read a multitude of parenting blogs and magazines). You attribute this to the fact that your Dad was probably even less thrilled about cuddling than you are, and that Dave likely didn’t get a chance to get all of his clinginess out until he was put into the custody of somebody who is a bit more lenient with hugs and such.

You find the courage to look at the clock on your nightstand. It reads, “5:37” in red, pixelated print. You are glad to know that Dave’s first day of preschool doesn’t begin until 10:00.

 

August 25th, 1997; 10:07 AM

 

“Greetings! I hope you all are ready to begin the day, because we have a lot to get through today.” You hear the teacher begin from outside the classroom door. You can’t see Dave’s expression through his shades, but he appears to be willing you through the door. You sigh before pushing the door open.

The teacher’s attention, along with that of about twenty other kids, snaps to you and Dave.

“Well! It looks like we have somebody new joining us!” The teacher claps her hands together. “You are free to talk with your neighbors while I speak with our new friends,”

She saunters over, short, brown hair bouncing and blue dress swaying. “Hello! I am Mrs. Serket. Please, do introduce yourselves.” She says, gaze panning from you to Dave.

You begin pleasantries, but your brother cuts you off. “‘M Dave, and he’s Bo,” He gestures to you before continuing, “Bo’s a ninja,”

You look at him for a moment before addressing the woman, “Dirk Strider,” You offer your hand, and she shakes it firmly. “‘Bro’ is a nickname.”

“What do you do for a living, Dirk?” She asks you, folding her arms behind her back.

“I work nights as a DJ at a club Thursday through Sunday,” You answer flatly. You also run your smuppet sites, but mentioning that is just begging for a visit from Social Services.

Dave grunts beside you.

Mrs. Serket notices this, and crouches down to speak to Dave, “The rest of the class is having circle time. You may join them if you wish.”

Dave bolts off with not so much as a word, and finds a space in the circle of chattering kids on the floor in front of the whiteboard.

“Jesus, don’t be too shy,” You comment, staring off in the direction of the class.

“That reminds me,” The teacher goes to pick up a clipboard from a nearby table. “If you’re late, you need to sign in. Put the time in one box, Dave’s full name in the next, and your signature in the last one,” 

You do as she asks. You are right in the middle of signing your own name when the door opens. In walks another parent with their child.

Your pen swerves, and you have to scribble out your name before trying again next to it. After this, you look up with mild annoyance. Standing next to you is a guy who is dressed like some kind of outlandish mixture of The Crocodile Hunter and Ace Ventura, and a little girl with round, thick-rimmed glasses. The man looks to have only a few years on you.

“Hello, Jake! You’re late for the first day again, I see,” Mrs. Serket remarks upon seeing the gentleman.

“Oh, late, late, late! Hogwash! It is a mere... what? Two minutes?” You blurts, flailing his arms about wildly.

You glance at your watch. “Fifteen minutes, actually,” you interject. 

He gives you a brief glance before returning to the teacher. “Well, whatever the case may be, I am present, and so is Ja-” He looks around, as the little girl standing beside him has vanished. “Jade?”

“She went to join the circle,” Mrs. Serket answers, jabbing a thumb behind her. “So, how was your summer, Jake?”

“Oh just dandy,” He takes her hand. Christ. “Though it may have been better had I seen you more, Aranea dear.”

Aranea, of course, blushes. “Don’t flatter, me, Jake.”

You fake cough to regain focus, and Aranea snatches her hand back from Jake to turn back to you.

“Oh, yes! Dirk, does Dave have any allergies or disabilities?” She asks promptly, smoothing over her dress and pushing her white glasses up on her nose.

“No but Dave is, for lack of a better word, clingy,” You deadpan, eyeing Jake.

“I’d never have guessed it from taking a gander at you,” Jake adds.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, when I take a ‘gander’ at  _ you  _ I wonder why you’re in a day care center instead of wrestling alligators or some shit,” You retort dryly.

“Please be mindful of your language,” Serket reminds you.

Ignoring the teacher’s interjection, he straightens his collar, “I often find myself asking the same thing, lad, but I am always a caregiver before an adventurer,”

You look to Mrs. Serket for help. She shrugs.

A long pause. You furrow your brow. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,”

Jake is on the brink of spouting more ludicrous nonsense when Dave walks over and tugs on your shirt.

“Bo,” There Dave stands, staring up at you with those big ol’ red eyes, a fistfull of your shirt in his hand.

“Oh my tapdancing Christ!” He bends down to tousle Dave’s hair, which, needless to say, visibly annoys the young blonde. “He looks just like you, Mr., er...”

“Dirk,” Mrs. Serket corrects.

“You have hairy legs,” Dave points to Jake.

Mrs. Serket pats Dave’s shoulder, “Dave, do refrain from pointing; it isn’t nice,”

Jake, once again, ignores the brunette, and asks Dave snarkily, “Oh, and I suppose Dirk shaves his legs?” The bespectacled girl who accompanied him seems to have scurried off in favor of her peers. You don’t blame her.

“Yes,” Dave assures. This kid has no discretion.

The teacher’s attempts to quiet Dave cease abruptly. Her gaze lands upon you.

Jake breaks into a fit of laughter that could easily exceed the description of hysterical. He’s slapping his knees and wheezing. The urge to punch his lights out is unbearable.

“Dave,” You deadpan, ignoring Jake, or trying to, rather.

He turns to you “Wha?”

“You’re in deep shit when you get home, dude.”

Jake stifles his laughter to speak to Dave again, “By golly, what else does he do? paint his nails? Wax the floor?”

Dave hides behind your legs. You give Jake a look that could peel the paint off of a car. It’s  _ on _ now. “Yes, actually, I  _ do _ wax the floor, and I clean the dishes, and I vacuum the carpet, and you can bet I’ll kick your ass, because Dave’s real parents aren’t around to do so.”

Your voice must have risen quite a bit, because the everyone else in the room, including the kids sitting in the circle, are looking your way. Another caregiver in a red turtleneck ceases his efforts to clean up wayward toys to gape at you. The only sound was that of a crayon hitting the wooden floor.

“Ooooooooh, he said a bad word,” Comes the voice of the little girl Jake came in with. She has risen from her seat on the floor to point at you.

“Thank you, Jade, but I am already quite aware of that,” The teacher looks like she’s aged up ten years in under ten minutes.

Jake just stands there, his expression unreadable.

After a moment of being dumbfounded, Mrs. Serket’s round features darken into a face that could match the one you made not one moment ago. “Jake, I think it is time for you to leave.” Her tone is no longer the tolerant and bubbly one she uses among her students. It is now deeper, curt, and business-like.

“What have I done?” He exclaims, waving his hands about. “I was just being in good humor!”

“You’re about as funny as a stack of bricks.” You retort impassively, allowing Dave to wrap his tiny hand around one of your fingers. As much as you would love to stay here and watch him make friends and draw dicks with purple crayons, you don’t really feel like hanging around here anymore, so you tug your hand away, before meeting his shade-clad eyes. “I gotta go, Dave. You have a nice first day, little dude.” You give him a pat on the back before Mrs. Serket guides him back to the circle. You give Jake a nod before exiting the classroom. 

 

September 4th, 1997; 7:07 AM

 

The phone rings.

You shift and pull a pillow over your head in an attempt to drown out the incessant noise. You wonder what asshat telemarketer decided that calling you at the asscrack of dawn was a good idea.

The ringing ceases for a moment, and you breathe a sigh a relief.  _ Maybe now I can actually get some sleep. _

However, it begins to ring again. It dawns on you you that this is not telemarketer; most solicitors don’t call more than once if you don’t pick up.

You begin to unravel yourself from the bedsheets when you hear the answering machine. “ _ Yo, you’ve reached Di-Stri. Leave me a message and I’ll get to ya’ when I can.” _

_ “Hello, this is Mr. Egbert...”  _ You pause, deciding to wait out the message. _ “John’s Dad, if you may. I will be hosting the birthday party for my neighbor’s granddaughter, Kanaya, today, and I am inviting you and Dave to come. Dave was not in the invitations, but I am allowing John to invite one friend of his own to the party, because we are, after all, hosting it. Please do call back when you receive this message.” _

“Goddamned kids...” You mutter, slinking out of bed to pick up the phone. You take a moment to ponder how this guy even got your phone number, but you don’t think much of it. You redial the man’s number and lean on the nightstand, waiting for him to answer, which he seems to be taking his sweet time doing.

“Egbert Residence, who is this?” His tone is chipper.

“Hey asshole, thanks for waking me up at an ungodly hour of the morning,” You make an honest attempt at deadpanning, but your voice just comes out exasperated and sleep-deprived. “I just  _ adore  _ getting up nice and early to smell the pollution and clean up the applesauce-spattered Playstation that is the result of me not being awake to feed Dave and play with him or whatever.”

“Oh my goodness! I am very sorry, sir... I didn’t mean to-”

“Well, there’s no point in apologizing at this point. You have already disturbed me from my much needed beauty sleep, so you might as well just tell me what’s going on.” You run a hand through your hair, which, might you add, badly needs its daily dose of love, affection, and mousse.

“Did you not get the messa-”

“I got the message. What I’m wondering is why you went through the trouble to go through the goddamned phone book at seven in the fucking morning and find my personal number just so I could get an invitation to drag Dave over to your house, where he’ll probably just make a huge mess and cry.”

“There’ll be cake.” He negotiates without hesitation.

You pause, contemplating this. Not that it requires contemplating. “Alright.”

You hear a small noise and look down to see that Dave is tugging on your pajama pants to get your attention. “Bo?”

“Bro’s on the phone, Dave,” You mime a chatty housewife as the icing on the irony cake that is your mommy shtick.

You hear a chuckle on the other end of the line. “Is that Dave?”

“No, it’s my magical talking dog that just happens to have the same toddler-esque speech impediment that Dave does,”

“John wants to say hi to Dave,” He says, and you hear a clatter in the background.

“Bo, can I say hi?” Dave asks, tugging harder on your pants.

“Okay, put him on I guess,” You hand the phone to Dave.

A look of uncertainty falls upon Dave for a moment before you hear the voice of a child crackle through the phone. Your home phone is pretty loud; if a person is standing nearby, they can hear to conversation.

“Hi.”

“Hi Dave! Are you coming to my- um... I mean, Kanaya’s party?”

“Yeh, man.” Your eyes stay on Dave. He even has his own little poker face as he replies. Screw his first steps and the first word he dribbles out, his first poker face is much more camera-worthy. You may shed a tear here.

After this, Dave and John begin to talk about whatever little kids talk about and you find yourself entrenched by how fucking adorable it is. You leave Dave to continue talking with his new friend as you go to the kitchen to make scrambled eggs. You don’t normally cook breakfast; you usually prefer to indulge in the lovely blessing to laziness that is cereal, but you’re up early, so you might as well try to do something special. You can still hear their conversation over the sound of the eggs cooking.

Hearing their banter causes a floodgate of nostalgia to break in you; the throes of snacktime, dinosaurs, and disney characters are surprisingly, not forgotten. Oh, to be four years old, when your biggest worries are who gets to play with what action figure at play time and how many stickers you get next to your name on the chalkboard.

You need to return from your nostalgic escapades in short order, though, as you have food to cook. A brief peek into the living room reveals a very blithe Dave. So much for that first poker face of his; he’s all smiles now.

Luckily for you, the eggs didn’t end up as repulsive as most of the other shit you cook, so you figure that it is suitable to feed to your brother. You’re feeling particularly generous, so you decide to heat up some bacon with it, too. You rifle around, looking for something to put the hot food on, but there are no clean plates when you look in the cupboard. You dare a look at the sink. It’s filled with an assortment of dishes, mugs, and sippy cups. Seeing the amount of mugs in the sink gives you a startling sense of how much coffee you’ve been drinking lately. The things that kid has done to you.

You settle on just flopping the eggs and bacon together into a bowl. Luckily for you, Dave wanders in just then, Lil’ Cal in tow. He struggles to hold both the phone and the doll at once, so he just decides to drag Cal about by one arm. You empathize with that puppet, you really do. You notice that Dave’s smile has actually grown since you last glanced at him.

He wordlessly hands you the phone, trading it for a bowl of food. His other hand is curled around one of Cal’s noodly arms. It takes you a moment to realize that Dave didn’t hang up after finishing his conversation with John.

“Dave, he’s still on the line.”

“I di’nt know how to hang up” He calls to you as he walks out of the room. You hear a plethora of noises escape from the TV. You gather that he’s watching saturday morning cartoons.

You press the end call button before stumbling to your room, food in hand, to place the phone into its cradle. You return to the living room and settle down next to Dave and Cal on the couch.

His smile is still there, though it has faded a touch. “What are you so hyped up about, kiddo?”

“John called me his bes’ friend.” The boy replies through a mouthful of eggs.

“Woah. Shit’s gettin’ matrimonial up in here. Prepare the vows.” You chuckle, eyeing the TV.  _ Doug _ is on. You were never too fond of this show. Dave doesn’t seem to care though; so long as it has bright colors and flashy animation, he likes it.

Dave just gives you a look that is heavy with confusion. You see something else in his expression, though; something surprising.  You can’t help but notice a twinge of hope. You’re not sure that Dave even knows what matrimony is, but you’re sure he got the jest of what you said. Your curiosity is piqued. 

“He invited me to his house.” Dave says, in a tone that borders on bragging.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, dude. He invited  _ us _ . I hope I’m not going to ruin any of the plans you had for your date.” You tease. Dave gives you a tiny punch on the arm, and a chunk of scrambled eggs tumbles from his bowl and onto the sofa.

“S’not a date, Bo. Also, if John an’ me ever got married an’ had kids, ‘dose kids wud look like chimps.” He says, returning his attention to the TV. You note with intrigue that he never mentions John’s gender. Either Dave is too young to understand, you ponder, or he doesn’t care.

“I’ve never seen John. How am I supposed to know that he isn’t chimp himself?”

Dave stares up at you in annoyance. “He has glasses an’ stuff.”

“That doesn’t exactly counter my argument, though. Chimps can wear glasses.” You’re just screwing with him at this point.

The small blonde is beginning to fluster. “Chimps have hair all over ‘em. John just has a rat’s nes’ on his head.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, little man.” You lean back and fold your arms behind your head. The couch gives a low creak under your weight.

Your brother, clearly dissatisfied with your answer, abandons his small bowl of eggs on the end table and slides off of the couch. Your eyes follow him as he stomps off into his room. You expect him to stay in there and pout, but instead, he returns with a spiral notebook and a fistfull of crayons. He reclaims his seat on the couch and looks squarely at you through his tiny set of pointy shades.

“‘M gonna show you, Bo.” He selects a blue crayon from the pile and, on the notebook paper, draws a stick figure. You lean over to watch him draw. He pauses, seemingly unnerved by being watched while he works, but continues nonetheless. He continues to add features to the person- glasses, hair pants- before setting the dull crayon down to begin with a black one. He scrawls on what appears to be shirt before using the red to draw some sort of logo on it. He gives you a glance before picking up the light blue and drawing two circles in each frame on the person’s glasses. Upon doing this, he studies the image for a spell before picking up a pink crayon and scribbling a touch.

He promptly holds the notebook up, nearly knocking your shades off. “This what he looks like.”

**((There's supposed to be a shitty drawing of John here but google drive isn't letting me save it so just imagine it))**

You look over the picture. Come to think of it, the drawing looked vaguely similar to a kid you saw Dave sitting next to during your argument with Jake on the first day of school.

** You feel a sense of vague annoyance at the strong chance that douchelord and who you’re assuming is his daughter will be attending the birthday party today. You don’t have anything against the guy, but there is only so much idiocy you can handle at once, and something tells you that the friendly gentlemen of the Egbert residence will be more than enough to handle in one day. **


End file.
